


"I never received a straight answer."

by catharsis_in_a_bottle



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff, Irene Adler Is A Raging 1800s Lesbian, M/M, Sherlock Has Gaydar, Victorian Gaydar, literally how else can i tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29169549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharsis_in_a_bottle/pseuds/catharsis_in_a_bottle
Summary: Victorian gaydar. That's it, that's the plot.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	"I never received a straight answer."

To Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman. Though the case of the “Scandal in Bohemia” is long behind us, Irene Adler always remained a facet of my particular curiosity. Of course the case was intriguing enough in itself, but the thing that truly captured my fascination was the prospect of Holmes being swayed toward the ‘softer passions’, against his proclaimed immunity to them. Of course, I now know that my dear friend is in fact capable of the previously incomprehensible realm of romance, for I myself have helped him to navigate it; but I also know from personal experience that one is not necessarily limited in attraction to only one sex, and each time I inquired Holmes about his feelings towards _the woman_ I never received a straight answer. Perhaps I had simply never caught him in the right mood, but regardless I remained in the dark about the nature of his affections for some many months. 

It was in the winter of 1890 that my curious desire ate at me again, after a meal which Holmes refused to eat, bearing no mind even to my gentle persuasions. I was ruffled into a fit of annoyance and Holmes was silent, sitting on the sofa with his pipe and staring sullenly into the flames of the hearth. Smoke curled around him in tendrils, and in apprehension I recognized the signs of an approaching storm; his tightened posture, perpetual sneer, and copious use of the pipe almost always foretold a wrathful mood. At this point physical comforts were beyond him, and if I wished to soothe or distract him, I would have to do it with words. 

“Holmes,” said I, settling down on my armchair. “What demon has possessed you?”

He grunted, further narrowing his eyes at the fire. “Therein lies the trouble, Watson,” he muttered. “There is no demon to be discerned from the haze. I am simply not feeling myself.”

“Might I be of assistance?”

“Your mere presence is often enough. Continue to sit there, if you will, ‘til I wrestle this foul beast to the ground.”

“Very well,” I replied, faintly amused at his rather picturesque comparisons, though I still worried at his condition. For the better part of an hour I sat, unsure of what to think about. Occasionally I glanced at Holmes to see if I could read in him some bettering of his mood. Whenever I was bored there were signature questions to which I would turn to entertain myself, and one was the general question of Irene Adler and my detective’s questionable outlook on her. For whatever reason, it was this question that I pondered as I remained in his presence, and I found myself slipping into a stupor. Eventually Holmes began to scrutinize me. He would glance in my direction, then turn to full-on analysis of my figure; I could tell by the scrunching of his brow that he was puzzling something out. As was I, of course.

“Watson,” he muttered at last with a sigh and a small smile, “do tell me what you are thinking about.”

He said this as if he were amused, perhaps even teasing. Gracing him with a sigh of my own, I replied, “I am thinking about you.”

“Ah, but you are also thinking about someone _else_.”

At this I was truly puzzled. “How could you possibly know that?”

“I know that faraway look. You are scavenging the past like a curious animal.”

He looked akin to a fox, sitting in his chair, all angular and peering as if he could see through my very soul. Perhaps he could, for already he had grasped the layout of my thoughts with nothing but a gaze. I thought it wise, therefore, to relay to this sly man the bare nature of my questioning.

“Holmes…” I began, not quite knowing how to proceed. But his carefully tilted head bade me continue in whatever manner possible. This, I reflected, was the love of having someone who _listened_.

I cleared my throat. “I have always wondered about… you and Mrs. Irene Adler,” I said. “So far I have never seen you more fascinated with an adversary. And you must believe me each time I apologize for comparing you to a machine, for I know that your heart feels deeply and I am glad to have seen it… but I wonder, my dear, if you ever harbored any such deep feelings for _her_?”

For a moment, Holmes did nothing but stare. Then, he barked out a laugh so sharp I thought he might be choking.

“ _Ha_ , John!” he exclaimed, trembling from his outburst. “What a _remarkable_ writer you are. You have managed to be endearing and utterly foolish in the same paragraph.”

“Foolish?!” I cried. “You were rather obsessed with her - even I wasn’t thick enough to miss that!”

But Holmes continued to shake with silent laughter, squeezing his eyes shut as he bent over his knees. I, for one, was more confused than angry, but perhaps the mingled expressions upon my face caused his laughter to subside when he finally raised his eyes to mine again. He performed a gesture I had seen thousands of times: shaking his head with a tight-lipped smile, evidently about to launch into explanation. 

“My dear Watson,” said he. “Let me be clear. I have never harbored an ounce of romantic inclination towards women, nor towards anyone other than yourself. My absorption into the wonder that is Irene Adler was nothing but intellectual attachment - the sheer adrenaline at having been outsmarted. And lastly, though she married a man, I have strong reason to believe that when she returned to America, she was returning to the arms of a female lover.”

I found myself spluttering profusely. 

“How on _earth_ could you possibly know that?”

“Perhaps you should get a tattoo of that ever-present phrase,” muttered Holmes as I stared agape at him. He smirked in a most infuriating way as he continued. “Irene Adler wore a ring on her left pinky finger while in London, signifying disinterest in finding a suitor. Such a custom does not exist in America, so evidently she did her research before coming here. Now why, if she were to marry soon after, would she not simply wear an engagement ring? My answer is one of sentiment: she took no pride in the prospect of her marriage, thus leading me to believe that she had taken on another lover at home to whom she was _not_ engaged.”

“That is all very well, Holmes, but even if there were another lover, how could you be certain it was a woman?”

Holmes suddenly appeared sheepish, a strange and unbefitting mask on his visage.

“Well, you see… when one finds themself in a relationship deemed unconventional by society at large… they develop a certain sense, you might say, as to who else may also be _unconventional_.”

“Holmes, that seems highly illogical.”

“Highly illogical indeed, but I tell you I have analyzed behavior, faces, voices, all to the point of having a veritable database stored in my head… some people simply reek of social rebellion, I tell you.”

I chuckled. “Is that what we are? A social rebellion?”

He smiled, sidling up to me over the floor and taking my hand. “Perhaps, John, we are a social rebellion. And if so, then so was Irene Adler. I simply know it!”

At this I let out a robust laugh of my own, color surely rising to my cheeks. I must say I felt a certain amount of relief at the knowledge that Adler was entirely out of the question for Holmes, and an inexplicable happiness at the fact that she might also fancy one she is not ‘supposed’ to. The world, then, was wider than I thought. There remained the peculiar aspect of Holmes’s ‘certain sense’ as to who might be arrested for their tendencies… 

“Holmes, are you quite sure you can merely _tell_ when someone…”

He pursed his lips and looked into the fire, pondering before he said, “I am not quite sure, but I have certainly thought about it extensively. It is merely societal observation, not a sixth sense, but nonetheless I find myself utilizing it out of boredom, and very seldomly out of genuine suspicions.”

“You are remarkable, Holmes,” I said, smiling fondly at him as the night dwindled on, my previous curiosities settled and new ones piqued. I had solved another one of Holmes’s mysteries, only to crack open yet another one. And so, on that winter evening in 1890, I had no trouble finding thoughts that would carry me to sleep beside my extraordinary detective.

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say about this except: I had the idea, I generated a result. Thank you for reading. 
> 
> [The first line is also the first line of 'A Scandal in Bohemia'.]


End file.
